The Hour of the Wolf
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: "Remember the panic when that anti-matter meteor splashed down just off the coast of Miami, nearly devoured the city?" "No..." "Precisely. Because we kept it quiet and contained." Sometimes, the only thing harder to face than a catastrophe is the knowledge of how close you came to one...


This is for the "Caffeine Failure" square on my Tropes Bingo card.

With thanks to my fabulous beta-readers gth694e, Jep and ishymaria. :)

* * *

Coulson stared at the field report he was editing. He'd been up for far, far too long, and the lines were starting to blur. He blinked repeatedly, to clear his eyes, and though his vision improved, the text on the page was still absolutely unbelievable.

An antimatter meteorite had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean not five miles from Miami.

Right next to Miami, with enough explosive power to obliterate the entire metropolitan area and its 5.5 million residents. He hated Florida on general principle, and ordinarily would have cracked a joke about Miami being an acceptable loss, except for the fact that _it had almost happened. _

An _anti-matter meteorite. _Off the coast of _Florida. _

He took another pull off his coffee. Dammit, when had this mug gone empty? He got up and crossed his office to get some more, albeit a little unsteadily. If he were Barton, he would have just started sucking directly from the carafe, but he had yet to sink that low.

A _meteorite. _Made of _anti-matter._

That shouldn't even have been possible. He'd heard a lot of explanations involving words like "baryogenesis" and "Couloumb collisions." The going theory was that it was an escapee from an antimatter galaxy from the other edge of the universe. The sole reason it had made it this far from home was the fact that it had somehow been generating its own internal magnetic field, a magnetic field that might have seen it safely across the cosmos but that had immediately started to deteriorate once it hit the bottom of the ocean. And if that magnetic field had dissipated completely?

_He'd be all alone and sitting pretty in the dust that was a city…_

Well, no, he wouldn't have been sitting pretty, he and his teams would have gone up with the poor unfortunate residents of the 305 area code. At least he would have gotten out of what would have been a really harrowing debrief. There probably wouldn't have been any dust, either, it would have just filled in with ocean water. Like Operation Plowshare. Project Chariot, right? They'd wanted to give the North Slope of Alaska a harbor, so they'd proposed setting off a string of underwater nuclear explosions. Thankfully, everyone involved had come to their senses, and the project died.

That Edward Teller. What a weirdo.

He wrapped his hands around the refilled mug to keep them from shaking.

_It is by caffeine alone I set my mind in motion.  
It is by the beans of java that  
The thoughts acquire speed,  
The hands acquire shakes,  
The shakes become a warning.  
It is by caffeine alone I set my mind in motion._

Jesus, he'd started paraphrasing "Dune" – a bit of doggerel an ex-girlfriend had taught him in college. Zoë was working at CERN now, and she'd lose her damn mind over this if only he could tell her. As it was, it ought to have been making his nerdy little heart squee with glee. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the implosion that would have encompassed all of Miami-Dade county.

They'd saved the day, of course, but it had been a very close call. SciOps had managed to modify a Penning trap and they'd contained the thing at the last possible moment, mostly thanks to Dr. Leo Fitz who was getting an immediate promotion if Coulson had any say in it (which he most certainly did). Coulson, on the other hand, had endured the agonizing wait at the surface, looking out at the city its residents going about their everyday lives with no idea how close those lives had come to ending. There hadn't been time to call for an evacuation. People would have just died in the panic before being obliterated.

_An anti-matter meteorite off the coast of Florida._

He started as he realized he'd forgotten to sit back down. And his mug was empty yet again. He poured some more coffee, and sat back down at his desk.

There was only the wrap-up now. 'Twas the fight's after-action, and all through the base, each agent was sleeping or stuffing his face. The scientists were snugly tucked up in their beds as visions of Nobel Prizes danced in their heads.

Well.

Nobel Prizes once this whole thing was declassified. Which would pretty much be on the Seventh of Never.

And speaking of idiot doggerel…

He wasn't a moron – he needed to rest, he knew that. At some point he was going to have to close his eyes and face his nightmares. But that moment was not now.

"Jesus, Phil, you look like shit," came Melinda May's voice from the doorway. He hadn't heard her come up. His operational readiness was shot – not a good sign.

"Thanks. I know I can always count on you, Melinda," he said.

"Seriously, when was the last time you slept?"

"I'm almost done," he dodged the question. "I'll head home soon," he lied.

May raised her eyebrow and pursed her lips, but she left.

* * *

_Stubborn, stubborn idiot!_

May had long experience dealing with Phil Coulson coming off rough missions, and the aftermath was never pretty. He would keep his cool in the field in the face of literally anything – his reputation for _sang-froid_ was absolutely legendary – but that sure as hell didn't mean he was unaffected, and no façade can last forever. Junior agents muttered constantly about Coulson the Robot, Coulson the Cold-Blooded and the only thing that kept the rookies from getting punched in their snotty little faces was Melinda's awareness of how carefully Phil cultivated that reputation.

She stuck her head in Hill's office.

"Hey, how long has Coulson been awake?"

"He's still here?" asked Maria, looking up from her screen. "I ordered him home twelve hours ago."

"Uh huh," said May. "He's still in his office. He hasn't set up a caffeine IV yet, but it's only a matter of time. Was this one that bad?"

Maria ran her hand over her face. "Yes. Yes, it really was," she sighed. "I'll go pry him out and try again."

"Better if it's not you. He'll just get combative. You should get someone he won't want to say no to."

Hill gave that a moment's consideration, then hit the intercom on her desk. "Ramirez! Get Barton up here."

* * *

"Jesus, sir, you look like shit."

Coulson looked up from the page he was attempting to edit. "Thanks, Barton. Did you need something?"

"Heard you guys were back. Did we really almost just lose Miami?"

Coulson nearly flinched. "You don't have clearance to know about that."

"Maybe not, but half the 'carrier is wandering around going, 'Oh my God, it was an _antimatter meteorite_.' and Garrett is in the cafeteria talking about how the Raiders were playing the Dolphins and how he owes you one for saving his team."

"Time for another OPSEC briefing, is what you're saying."

"Give it a break, sir, even by SHIELD standards, this one's pretty weird. So… how long has it been since you slept?"

"I just need to finish this up. If you want to help, get me some more coffee."

"Yeah, no. Juan Valdez called, and he's cutting you off." Coulson opened his mouth to object, but Barton stopped him. "Sir, it's all right. The thing is on its way to the Sandbox. You can stand down now."

Coulson looked up. Barton was looking right into his eyes with a worried expression. Barton was worried? About him? That wasn't how it was supposed to work.

"Come on, Coulson. You need to sleep."

Coulson's objections melted away when presented with Barton's puppy-dog eyes. Damn the man for coming by when his defenses were down! He allowed Barton to chivvy him out of his chair. Barton stood by as Coulson shut down his computer and grabbed his jacket.

"You don't actually have to walk me to my bunk, Barton," said Coulson as they started walking towards the Helicarrier's barracks.

"Actually, I kind of do." He pulled a piece of paper out of one of his uniform pockets. "I've got orders to escort to your quarters and see that you stay there for at least twenty-four hours."

Coulson took the piece of paper and read it over. Well, Maria certainly could be a smartass when she chose. In proper bureaucratese, no less.

He almost smiled at the warm feeling in his chest. He'd mentored her well.

He let Barton lead him to his berth and escort him in. As soon as the door shut, a wave of fatigue overwhelmed him, and he nearly stumbled.

"I shouldn't be this tired," he said. "Not with the amount of coffee I've had."

"Yeah, I think you've become immune. Come on, sir, shoes and belt off."

Phil clumsily got undressed to his boxers and t-shirt – pajamas were too much to hope for, in his current state. He stumbled into bed and pulled up the covers as Clint took up his post in the easy chair across the room.

"Six million people. Nearly six million people, Clint, almost gone in an instant," he said.

"But they weren't. Because you were there."

"Because Fitz was there. I just stood around and looked menacing," said Phil.

"You brought the right people there to get the job done. You always do."

Phil wanted to argue, wanted to tell Clint how terrified he'd been, but his body sensed that it finally had the upper hand, and dragged him down into slumber.

* * *

Coulson woke slowly – it took a good long while for his brain to come back online. He raised his head and blinked at the 24-hour clock. Had he really slept for sixteen hours?

"Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?" Barton set down his tablet and sat up.

Like he'd been run over by a truck – mission hangovers were never fun.

"Fine, Barton, thank you."

He did feel better though, even as the memories came rushing back. After enough sleep, his ability to put events into perspective returned, and he internally cringed at his sleep-deprived behavior. God, he hadn't said some of those things out loud, had he?

"Glad to hear it. How about some breakfast?"

"Really, Barton, you don't have to stay." Coulson was confused – surely the man had realized that Maria was kidding about the time.

Barton held up the sheet of paper. "Nope, I've got eight hours left."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you a stickler for following orders?"

"You know that better than anyone, sir." Barton gave him an unexpectedly soft smile. "When I really want to follow them."

Coulson almost told him how glad he was Barton had been here. Coulson almost told him how Barton's presence had kept the nightmares away. Coulson almost told him how that soft smile made him feel.

But almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and the blast radius of an antimatter meteorite. The moment passed, and the opportunity was gone. A loud growl from Coulson's stomach kept the moment from coming back.

"You're right, breakfast sounds good," he said. "Thanks, Barton."

"Anytime, sir."

* * *

So I've got some references to explain. :)

"All alone and sitting pretty/in this dust that was a city," is from the 80s song 99 Red Balloons, a suprisingly uppy-peppy song about nuclear war and the end of the world.

Operation Plowshare was the attempt to find civilian uses for nuclear weapons and "the friendly atom," loudly espoused by Edward Teller. Project Chariot was a real thing.

The doggerel is a parody of the Mentat Mantra from David Lynch's "Dune":

It is by will alone I set my mind in motion.  
It is by the juice of Sapho  
that thoughts acquire speed,  
the lips acquire stains,  
the stains become a warning.  
It is by will alone I set my mind in motion.

The parody as Phil quotes it was floating around Usenet in the mid-to-late '90s.

And I'm sure you all know "The Night Before Christmas" when you see it. :)


End file.
